


An Open Door

by oxymora (oxymoron)



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, M/M, Priests
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-18
Updated: 2012-07-19
Packaged: 2017-11-10 00:52:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/460428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oxymoron/pseuds/oxymora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Behold, I have given before thee a door opened, which no man can shut.</i><br/>(Apocalypse 3:8, Douay-Rheims translation)</p><p>In which Charles is a priest, Erik is a Nazi hunter, the two of them are childhood friends and each thinks that the other should change his job.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eckses](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=eckses).



> This work was inspired by eckses' [gorgeously done artwork](http://eckses.livejournal.com/908.html). I immediately fell in love with this piece, and I've been staring at it whenever I needed inspiration or encouragement. Go over there to leave her some feedback!
> 
> Lots of thanks to christycorr and firstlightofeos for betaing and handholding.

 

\- July 1944 -

Charles can’t sleep.

Charles can read minds. He knows this is true — knows that he is not mad — with absolute certainty, just as he also knows that he must never tell, not even in confession.

Insomnia is the price for his newfound ability — ever since that day they shot the Résistance soldier at the edge of the forest and Charles suddenly heard his scream both inside and outside his skull, the voices have kept him awake. He’s getting better at blocking them during the day by focusing on other tasks, but at night, when the lights are out, there is no escape from the thoughts and dreams crowding in from the boys around him. It has been better since the beginning of the holidays — almost all of the other boys have gone home, making the room a lot quieter — but tonight, Jacques has a dream about the farmer’s daughter that makes Charles blush and squirm in his bed.

He casts his own thoughts outwards. The monks’ minds tend to be quieter than those of his classmates, and maybe tuning in to one of them will let him catch some sorely-needed rest. Only — the mind he finds is utterly unknown to him, and far, far from calm. The sudden burst of fear, hunger, sickness and white-hot anger coiled underneath is almost nauseating. Everything about this mind is suspicious and hostile, but strangely, Charles’ immediate reaction is fascination rather than fear. His mother always maintains that he does not know what’s good for him.

(Well, she used to maintain that when she used to remember she had a son, back in 1939. They had been living in Paris then — she, Charles, and Jean-Claude. Charles had rather liked Jean-Claude at the time, although his feelings have cooled considerably since, once he realized that his mother’s lover had been the main reason he had been packed off to a nice, Catholic boarding school located conveniently far from the city. A year later, when the Germans were moving closer to the school and Father Pierre had tried to reach her, she’d been gone. Charles remembers he had cried at the time. He hadn’t cried a year later when he’d got her letter.

She had assured him that he would be safe and well cared for in the country, that this nasty war would be over before he knew it, that she had left funds for him with Father Pierre, and that she would dearly love to take him with her and her new friend Mr. Kurt Marko to America, but that it would be very difficult and dangerous to get him out of the country at the time. Charles had been almost ten, and he hadn’t understood all of her letter, but he had understood that he had been left, that his mother had never once in his life hugged him the way Father Pierre did after he had finished the letter, and that he had never trusted any of her promises as much as the headmaster’s when he’d told Charles that he had a home and a family at the Little Convent.)

And so Charles finds himself walking along the dark, silent corridors of the school in the middle of the night, following the irrisistible pull of an alien mind and the faint sounds of movement and shuffling coming from the kitchens. He has enough sense to grab a solid cane on the way, at least.

A soft glow emanates from the half-opened kitchen door. Charles concentrates very hard on being invisible (it seems to work around the teachers and older boys), and softly edges it open to peek inside.

There’s a boy shuffling through the storage cupboards. He’s about a head taller than Charles, and easily twenty pounds lighter. He’s clad in rags, and even by the light of a single candle, Charles can tell that he’s filthy. With one hand, he is throwing food into a satchel, while the other is occupied with stuffing bread into his mouth.

There’s nothing for it. Taking a deep breath, Charles casts his mind outward, tries to project _calm—friendly—safe,_ and steps inside. The boy whirls around, there’s a shrill creak, and Charles manages to throw himself to the floor before the metal doorknob of the nearest cabinet crashes into the door above him. Then the boy is on top of him, trying to strangle him. He’s furious and frightened, but also emaciated and weak; Charles has little trouble grabbing his wrists and holding him down.

“Arrête!” he hisses, and tries to project _calm—calm—calm_ over the violent beating of both of their hearts, “je veux pas te faire mal.”

The boy stills, but Charles senses that this is a reaction to the tone of his voice, the gentle grip he maintains on his wrists, and the feelings he is projecting, rather than the words themselves.

_You’re not French._

The boy’s eyes widen. He shakes his head.

_How did he do that?_

_I’m in your head. I can read minds._

Never having shared his secret with anyone before, Charles has no baseline to compare the boy’s reaction against, but it is not what he would have expected: the boy’s mistrust and fear do not lessen, but neither do they spike; instead, there’s a sharp sense of awe, curiosity, and calculation.

 _Can you hear me?_ The thought is both tentative and extremely loud, the mental equivalent of a shout in his direction.

_Yes! Yes, I can! I’ve never done this with anyone before!_

Charles can’t help himself — he forgets to be careful, he drops the boy’s wrists and dives deeper into his mind, trying to get more information.

 _Listen, Erik — your name is Erik, right? —_ (the boy nods, shocked) _you don’t have to be scared. You’re hungry, and on the run. Take whatever you need, the monks are always giving to the poor, and I’m sure we can spare a satchel of food, you don’t have to steal._

His thoughts are racing along with his heart.

_In fact, you never have to steal again. You’ll stay here. We’ll hide you, I know Father Pierre will help, and the Nazis hardly ever come inside the school. You have to stay! I always believed I couldn’t be the only one in the world. The only person who was — different. And here you are! What you did with the doorknob — you’re incredible, do you know that?_

 

#

In the end, it takes Charles another hour to convince Erik to trust _him_ enough to accept to stay the night, hidden away in the old barn, and two days to convince him to talk to Father Pierre. There are moments when Charles has a guilty suspicion that the mind he felt that night should never have trusted him on his own, but he is usually very good at silencing that line of thought. He can read minds, yes, and maybe alter perceptions, and project things, but not control them. He tried for a whole week to make Cook add porridge to the breakfast menu without success. He didn’t even _try_ to convince Erik with his powers. They just have a connection. It might simply be their unusual talents, but Charles thinks it is more than that. Erik’s mind _pulls_ at his: a constant, unwavering attraction that has been there from the first time he felt it, in the dark of the sleeping room. After only a week, he has never felt as close to another human being. He _knows_ Erik. He might not know much about why and from whom exactly Erik is hiding, where he comes from or what happened to him (he has seen snippets — dark and dank rooms filled with hollow-eyed crowds, a gleaming steel table with straps attached, the skulls of two soldiers crushed by their steel helmets, a man with oily brown hair and round glasses (that one is somehow the scariest of all) — but he has not dared to look deeper, never mind that he does not quite know how to access someone’s memories when they are not actively thinking about them and without being found out), but he knows _Erik_. And he knows that Erik belongs with him, that he is his.

Charles is never plagued by doubts about Father Pierre’s behavior and motives, or those of any of the other monks and teachers. He has long known the monks’ thoughts about the Germans, their genuine devotion to charity, and their faith. They accept the ragged boy that Charles drags out of the barn not without, but with very little and very well-meaning questions. What is his name? (Max. He does not volunteer a surname, and is not asked for one.) Is he hungry? Does he want a bath and a fresh set of clothes? (Yes.) Can he understand them (Yes, with a little silent help from Charles.) Does he have any family, anyone they can contact? (No.) Are the Germans looking for him? (Yes.) Does he know if they know where he is? Would the local authorities recognize him? (That one is difficult. Finally, Erik is able to explain that he escaped while being transported from one place to another, and has been on the run for about three weeks. He does not think anyone has seen him.)

At the end of the interview, Father Pierre leans over his desk and sighs. He casts a long look at Erik’s left breast, where his shirt is torn, and says, very gently, “Tu n’es pas catholique, non?”

Erik hesitates. He sees Father Pierre’s look, and then he nods. “Non, je suis pas.”

Charles has strange feeling that he doesn’t understand the whole exchange, but he does understand that Erik’s nod is answering a different question than the the one Father Pierre asked out loud.

It is a good thing that the holidays have only just begun. Father Pierre is confident that they can use the remaining weeks until September to grow Erik’s shorn hair out, put some fat on his ribs, improve his French, give him a new identity, and enrol him as a student at the school. The story is that Max Michel is the son of a French woman and a Flemish husband, that he grew up in Flanders and that, after his father’s death, his mother returned to her family in France and sent her son to school. Erik doesn’t speak a word of Flemish, but neither do any of the other students, and his accent might as well be Flemish as German. Father Pierre thinks that a German background would be much too suspicious.

While de Gaulle’s voice drones from the radio, Father Pierre muses that with the way the war is going, it is likely that France will be freed before the summer is over.

It turns out that he is right.

 

#

 

\- 1945 -

 

Three months after the German capitulation, Charles receives a letter from his mother. Her offer to come to Westchester, New York, a place that he has almost no memories of, to live with her and her new husband (Charles had not even known that she had married this Mr. Marko), offers very little temptation. Father Pierre’s promise has come true: the Convent is his home, the monks and his fellow students and Erik — most of all Erik — are his family.

He declines.

Erik has stayed Max Michel, although he has been upgraded from half to full orphan. Nobody questions his story much, just as nobody ever seems to notice the numbers tattooed on his forearm. The source of the ease with which Erik is accepted and the general disinterest in his appearance from the other students is another thing that Charles can never confess, not even to Father Pierre, so he very pragmatically refuses to feel guilty about it. He and Erik are inseparable. Nobody questions their friendship, though many wonder at it. The two boys seem to have little in common. Erik does not have friends apart from Charles; he keeps to himself and most of the other students are afraid of his size, strength, and mood swings. Charles is friendly with everybody and would probably be friends with everybody, too, if Erik didn’t monopolize his time. As it is, they spend most of their free time alone, closeted away in a corner of the library or out in the woods.

Charles knows everything about Erik by now. He knows that his last name is Lehnsherr, that he has a remarkable talent for languages and drawing, that he grew up in Düsseldorf, that he can shape metal like butter and lift the Convent’s massive cast-iron baptistry, that he is Jewish, that he does not believe in God, that his mother was shot in front of him, that he has more trouble sleeping at night than even Charles, that Klaus Schmidt had made him practice his control of fine metals on his father’s gold teeth, that Erik managed to escape after three months of torture when Schmidt decided to bring him from Auschwitz to a more sophisticated laboratory near the French border, that he keeps a portrait of and a coin for Schmidt.

He knows that he wishes that Erik would find peace and forgiveness — and at the same time cannot imagine him any different — that he loves Erik more than anybody, that Erik feels the same about him, and that he will not stay with Charles despite all that. Erik is grateful to the monks, but he does not believe what they preach, and he does not mean to follow their teachings. There is a darkness in Erik’s soul that Charles doubts he will ever understand, no matter how much he studies it.

#

Erik leaves when he is fifteen. During their goodbye, he kisses Charles. It is not a brotherly kiss; and it makes Charles realize three things: firstly, there is after all something that he had not known about Erik; secondly, there is something he had not known about himself; and thirdly, there is a reason Jacques’ dreams about this girl or that have always made him squirm uncomfortably instead of excitedly, and that reason is not that he was born to be celibate.

#

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

\- January 1962 -

 

“Good morning, Father!”

Charles gives the girl at the entrance desk to the Cardinal’s offices on First Avenue a warm smile. His new title still sounds strange in his ears, but he will not deny the burst of pride it causes. He has worked hard to get to where he is today.

“Thank you, dear! Could you tell me where his Eminence is meeting the newly ordained priests?”

“Fourth floor, fifth door to the right. You can take the elevator down the hall.”

“Thank you, but I prefer the steps. Have a good day!” He gives her another smile and she blushes. Charles catches her thinking that he’s rather attractive for a priest. Apparently, his eyes are dreamy.

About halfway up, Charles realizes that his plan to take the stairs in order to have a few more minutes alone to gather his thoughts has failed. Someone is coming up behind him at a much faster pace. He turns, ready to utter a polite greeting — and then he makes contact with the newcomer’s mind, and he almost stumbles.

After over a dozen years, Erik’s is still the most familiar mind Charles knows. It is also the one he expected least to meet on the steps to the Cardinal’s office in the middle of Manhattan. And yet, there he is, unmistakeable even after fourteen years and a considerable growth spurt and looking about as stunned as Charles himself feels. Almost as confusing as Erik’s appearance itself is his dress: the same black cassock Charles is wearing.

“Charles?”

He barely manages a nod, but Erik has a much faster recovery rate (of course he does, Charles always knew that). He takes hold of Charles’ upper arms, propels him towards the door to the second floor, and steers him through it and into the nearest office, which he unceremoniously locks with his powers.

“How did you know this room was empty?”

“I can sense humans using the iron content in their blood. Is that really the first question on your mind?” Erik’s voice is deeper than Charles remembers it, but it is still unmistakable. He holds Charles close, hands roaming over his body as if he needs to reassure himself of Charles’ presence through touch. Charles would object, but that would be a tad hypocritical, as he is doing the same mentally and cannot deny how much he relishes both forms of contact.

“What are you doing here?” Erik asks.

The question, and his obvious surprise, destroys Charles’ momentary hope that Erik has come here looking for him.

“I’m a priest at St. James, I’m here for the welcome meeting with his Eminence. I might rather ask what  _you_  are doing here.”

He feels rather than sees Erik’s wince.

“I wish you wouldn’t.”

But it is too late — intertwined as his mind is with Erik’s, it takes Charles less than a second to grasp the whole plan that brought him here, from the painstakingly drawn portrait of the Cardinal’s secretary to the knife up his sleeve.

“You can’t!”

Erik sighs, releasing his hold on Charles and moving away enough to look him in the eye. His voice is wary.

“What do you mean, I can’t? That I won’t be able to kill a man who deserves it? That my plan will fail? That I shouldn’t, because it displeases that god of yours?”

Erik runs a hand over Charles’ hair where he must have mussed it, and Charles shivers at the tenderness of the touch.

“I’m sorry, Charles, but you are wrong on all three counts.”

“I mean,” he starts, and stops to steady his voice, “that you can’t leave me to go off and kill somebody in broad daylight after I haven’t seen you in fourteen years. I mean that you can’t, because you and I will leave this building and go to a nice cafe where people will conveniently overlook us and let me have my friend back for an afternoon.”

Erik looks as if he is about to argue, so Charles grabs his sleeve and drags him out.

“Not now, Erik.”

Erik follows.

 

 

#

Nobody sees them leave the house or enter the cafe at the other side of the street, but a waiter appears unasked at their table five minutes later, carrying two cups of coffee and two sandwiches. Erik’s look of open admiration and pride makes Charles turn beet-red.

Erik takes a sip of his coffee and raises an eyebrow at Charles.

“Well? Are you going first?”

He swallows hard. “What do you want to know?”

“About you? Everything.”

“I’m not sure the place is open long enough for that, but the basic facts… I stayed at the Convent until graduation, and then I couldn’t in good conscience refuse mother’s invitation, so I went to join her and her husband at the family seat in Westchester. Suffice to say we did not get along very well. I tried to be the son they wanted me to be for several years, and once I realized that the son they wanted wasn’t and would never be me, I left.” He pauses.

“And then I became a priest.”

“And then you became a priest.” Erik scoffs. “I stand corrected. You  _have_  changed. The Charles I remember couldn’t shut up about his plans and dreams and motivations.”

“You know how important my faith has always been to me. And I wanted to do some good in the world. The best people I ever knew were the group of monks I happened to grow up with. If it wasn’t for them, I would not be here today. And neither would you.”

“You will not hear me say a bad word about any of the Fathers. But I know to whom I owe my life, and it’s not them. You saved me. They helped.”

“Well, I’m a Father now, too, my friend, so it seems to make little difference.”

Erik’s laugh is bitter. “So is the person I’m here for. You saw my plan, did you see my motive?”

In truth, Charles has seen enough of it to raise bile in his throat, but he shakes his head. He wants to hear Erik’s reasoning out loud.

“He was a priest in Germany during the war, name Johann Schenzberger. He kept contact with Schmidt — gave him information about others like you and me. Children of the Devil, he called them. One of the children he delivered had a tail and healing powers. Schmidt tried to find out how many body parts he had to cut off until the wouldn’t grow back anymore. He succeeded when he tried the head.

“It’s not the only blood on that priest’s hands, either. He made nice with the Nazis by giving them as many names as he could — Jews, dissidents, homosexuals, you name it. Your precious Church is keeping him safe — they have given him exile and a new identity here, just to avoid the scandal. You know he’s not the only sinner, or the only scandal being hushed up. Your monks are the exception, not him.”

There is too much truth in Erik’s words for Charles to reply right now, so he returns to the original topic.

“Is that what you do now? Playing judge and executioner, killing people who you have decided do not deserve to live because they once decided the same for our kind?”

Erik’s smile is sharp. “I call it hunting bad people.”

And Charles can see it — he’s not consciously aware how much he is drawing from Erik’s mind and how much of it is fueled by his intimate knowledge of Erik’s history and character, by years of speculating and worrying what became of him. This is what the Jews of the Old Testament must have pictured when they thought of avenging angels. Charles is a priest — he knows what it means to devote one’s life to a mission, and Erik has honed himself into a weapon.

After years of lying awake and thinking about his friend, it hurts to see how close the outcome has come to his worst fears.

No, that is a lie. Erik is alive. He is well, at least physically (in fact, Charles can’t seem to stop noticing just how well Erik is looking — tall, broad-shouldered, and with a smile that has too many teeth). He is here. He still cares about Charles. Nevertheless—

“I prayed for you to find some peace in all those years we spent apart. Something to fulfill you, other than pain and anger.”

“You knew why I left. You know I need to do this.”

“This? Go into people’s offices and execute them?”

“Find Schmidt. I’m not after John Shenzberg for what he did — I’ll kill him for that, and it’s what he deserves, whatever your misguided faith is telling you — but I wouldn’t be here if he didn’t know him. I’ll find Schmidt, and if you’re concerned about Shenzberg, then stay out of my head because you don’t want to know what I’ll do to  _him_.”

“Why, Erik?” It’s the question he has been meaning to ask for over fifteen years now.

“He killed my mother.”

“You know that’s not what I’m asking. Is this your purpose in life? You’ve given up everything to hunt this one man, and that hurts because everything has included me, but mostly because it makes me fear for your soul.”

If he’d expected Erik to scoff and withdraw, he is mistaken. Instead, Erik takes his hand in a gesture far too intimate for two priests in public.

“You worry too much about souls,” he says, and his eyes are soft. “And I haven’t given you up. I’m here.”

He pulls back his hand before anybody can take notice.

“You mean you ran into me, because I happened to be at the same place as your next victim. If you’d meant to find me at any time in the last fourteen years, you would have done so. It’s not like I’ve been in hiding. I know that if I hadn’t made you come here, you’d be out of town by now with a dead body left behind across the street, and I know that I’ve only deferred that good-bye for another day.”

Charles swallows. Honesty hurts. It is one of the earliest lessons he learned, but one that is still smarting.

Erik shrugs. “Who knows? I might stay a few days.”

#

Charles is officiating the Mass the next day. Leading a whole congregation in worship is still new to him, and he tries to fill every part of the liturgy with meaning, even as he knows that most of his parishioners do not understand a word of Latin. Hopefully, the council will push the current plans towards reform and allow him to actually look people in the eye and pray with them in their own language.

This time, when he feels Erik’s mind slip in, he manages not to show his surprise, though possibly he speeds up a little. Finally, he is able to turn around to hand out the Eucharist, and yes — there’s Erik, in one of the last rows, watching him intently and with a slight smile (or is it a smirk?). He is wearing street clothes today — an impeccably tailored grey suit — and Charles suddenly thinks that there is something to be said for the modesty of a black cassock.

_Focus, Charles!_

It’s Erik, reaching out to him, and Charles almost drops his tray of hosts. Nobody has been taking to him telepathically for fourteen years, after all.

_They’re waiting for you._

He collects himself and proceeds to lay hosts into the mouths of those those kneeling before him.

_I’ll stop distracting you from your holy duties. I’ll be outside._

Ah, now  _that_  is a smirk.

When he has finished the service and changed, Erik is waiting, leaning against one of the stone pillars that frame the entrance.

“Lunch?”

He looks so utterly casual. Charles is itching to peek inside his head, just to see if Erik is experiencing at least a little of the excitement and confusion he is feeling himself, but after fourteen years in which Erik didn’t even bother to look him up, after Erik said something about staying out of his head yesterday, he doesn’t trust his welcome anymore. The last thing he wants is to drive Erik away.

“I have a sandwich.” He offers his lunch bag. “We could share.”

Erik simply nods and motions for him to lead the way. The day is surprisingly mild, so they head to Central Park, and Charles is acutely aware of Erik walking a little too close, of the warm body sitting next to him on the narrow park bench, of brushing his fingers when he hands him half of his sandwich.

“So, what brings you to the morning Mass?”

_Why are you still here? How long are you staying? What happened to Shenzberg?_

Erik grins. “I wanted to see you at work.”

“And what is your judgment of my professional qualifications?”

Erik shrugs. “I’ve seen that you’re very good at reciting hundred year old prayers. Not so good at shoving food into people’s mouths, but I’m sure you’ll improve.”

Charles should probably be offended, but Erik has always been irreverent about the Church. Charles probably wouldn’t recognize him if he learned tact.

“There’s more to being a priest than speaking the liturgy. I’m helping people. I’m heading a literacy group, helping immigrants with paperwork, teaching Sunday school… You know I’ve always wanted to teach.”

“You can’t be satisfied with that. Someone with your talents — teaching children their catechism and parroting Latin, that’s not what you were meant for.”

“Humility is a virtue.”

“Lying isn’t. Waste isn’t. These are not your people, Charles. Have you told any of them — anyone besides me — what you can do? What would they do if you did?”

Charles had known there would be a confrontation (this is Erik), but not this soon. Erik sighs and rubs a hand over his face.

“I’m sorry. That’s not why I came here. I’m not trying to start a fight. If this makes you happy…”

“It does.”

 _It does it does it does._  He has given up a lot to be here.  _It does. It has to._ It’s just a little harder to remember with Erik here representing a plethora of things he can’t and frankly shouldn’t want to have.

“So why did you come?” he asks.

“To compromise.”

Charles raises an eyebrow. Erik is the most uncompromising person he has ever met, and he knows it.

“You want me to spare Shenzberg. I can accept that, as long as I get everything he knows about Schmidt. I have enough evidence of his ties to the Nazis to tip him off to one of my contacts, supposing you are not opposed to that, too. You can get the information I need far more efficiently than I ever could, and you won’t leave traces that might warn him.”

Charles wants to balk at the implied invasion into another’s mind.

“I have been trying not to use my telepathy. If I can’t shut it off, and I can’t be honest about it, I think I need to at least try to give people their privacy.”

Erik gives him a look.

“Yesterday it didn’t look like you lacked practice.”

“Those were small things. Making people look away, keeping them uninterested, that’s easy. You are asking me to raid another person’s memories against their will. I could do lasting harm!”

“Not as much harm as I mean to do.” Erik’s voice is cold.

Charles knows he is right. The proposal goes against all the rules he has set for himself, but considering the alternative… He thinks it might pay off to adopt a utilitarian approach to morality in this case. Still it would be a shame to waste bargaining potential by agreeing too quickly.

“What’s in it for me?”

“You have an admirably charitable mindset, Father. I’m offering to spare a life.”

“That’s not compromise, that’s extortion.”

“Okay then. I’ll tell you what you are. How many others like you and me I’ve met. I’ll tell you everything I know about Schmidt and what he’s up to.”

The offer is so intriguing that he almost drops the calm facade, but hearing confessions — both the revolting and the hilarious — teaches admirable poker face.

“Not good enough.”

Erik gives him a questioning look.

“Stay a week. I’ll probably need that much time anyway, to get close to Shenzberg. Stay a week, and don’t disappear for fourteen years again.”

“Done.”

“And come to my place tonight.”

Erik raises his hands in surrender. “I’m at your disposal for the next seven days.”

 

 

 

 

#

Charles has the chessboard set up and the good whisky ready by the time Erik arrives. If the suit was an upgrade from the cassock, it does not stand a chance against the sleek dark turtleneck and leather jacket he has changed into,and Charles  has really got to stop thinking this much about Erik’s clothes and how much they reveal about the body underneath.It’s shameful, although not nearly as much as the amount of time Charles spent fussing over his own wardrobe — not that there’s much to choose from. But he has picked his most form-fitting black shirt and trousers in a fit of vanity, and although he’s been ruing the decision ever since, there hasn’t been enough time to change back. From the way Erik is looking at him, he’s noticed. Charles vaguely knows that he shouldn’t be as gratified by that look as he is, but he admitted his attraction to men in general and Erik in particular years ago, and while there was a time when he prayed to be different, he has enough experience with human desires — much more intimately than he’d  have liked to, thank you very much — that he knows he won’t ever get rid of the temptation. He trusts that a merciful God will not fail to notice that Charles has never acted on it.

“You look good.”

And Charles wishes desperately that Erik wouldn’t fight this battle with blatant honesty. He cannot allow himself to react if he wants to stand a fighting chance. He motions for Erik to come inside and turns, heading to the chess set.

“Thank you. Whisky?”

 _Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing, Xavier._ Erik’s mental voice is warm, amused, genuine and so very missed. And that’s the problem right there — Erik might be a ruthless tactician, but he doesn’t  _need_  tactics with Charles. He never has. His simple mental presence has been magnetic from the first time Charles felt him, and Charles would very much like to forget he used that metaphor, because this is embarrassing. He’s supposed to be good with words.

“Yes please.”

_I’m not doing anything, my friend. I think that’s your part._

“There you go. Let me take your jacket.”

It’s only polite. He’s not looking for a way to touch Erik. He’s not.

When he returns, Erik has settled in front of the black pieces, sniffing his drink appreciatively and looking somehow utterly at home in Charles’ spartan one-room apartment.

“Your salary must be higher than I expected.”

Charles scoffs.

“What, to afford all this?” He gestures at the cheap furniture.

“I was talking about the drink.”

“Oh. That’s from my father’s collection. Just like the chessboard. I donated the bulk of my inheritance, but I think I’m allowed some weaknesses.”

“I’m sure you are. Your turn.”

For a while, they play in silence. It is invigorating to play against an opponent as skilled as Erik. He has obviously been playing regularly since they parted, and Charles is fiercly glad to see that Erik has allowed himself an indulgence like this, small though it might be.

About halfway through their first game, Erik starts talking. At first, it’s anecdotes of his travels, of all things. Charles wonders what the goal behind that line of conversation is (Erik always has a goal), until the stories turn to the people Erik has met. People like them. People with powers.

“Schmidt convinced me that I was a monster. An abnormality, only useful as a weapon. You were the first one to teach me that that’s not true. I knew I wasn’t alone because I’d met you, but I’d never imagined how many of us there are. It’s the rise of a new species, Charles. We are the future.”

“A new species?”

“Mutants. It’s all due to genetic mutation. Schmidt was starting to figure it out by the time he found me, but he’d only scratched the surface. I’ve been keeping tabs on scientific developments — there’s a recent Harvard graduate; she’s human, but she’s done incredible work. She’s selling it as purely theoretical, but I was able to persuade her to put me in contact with her sister. She’s blue, Charles. The most exquisite creature I’ve ever seen.”

For once, Charles has absolutely no wish to see Erik’s mind. His surface thoughts of open admiration and attraction are unpleasant enough.

“I’m glad you have made friends on your travels,” he says and moves a bishop.

If Erik’s chuckle is any indication, he did not succeed in making it sound casual. And now he can see her, blue scales and golden eyes, absolutely stunning, and —  _is she naked?_ This is far more information than he should get by accident, and he should never have forgotten how good Erik is at projection. __

“Stop it, Erik.”

“I’m sorry, have I done anything?” Erik asks, and Charles ponders throwing the bishop at his face instead.

“I’d rather not know the exact details of what you  _have_  done, thank you very much.”

Erik laughs and changes the topic, leaving Charles to wonder whether it might have been better to know, after all.

He doesn’t have much time to be jealous, though. The picture Erik is sketching for him is far too intriguing — Charles’ father was a scientist, and Charles himself had a vague inclination to follow him before he chose the Church, so he soaks up every piece of information Erik can give him. Charles has never really asked about the origin of his and Erik’s unusual skill sets — simply accepted them as facts, a gift from God, and now he is wondering how he could have been so blasé about it. Erik leaves him a copy of the illustrious Dr. MacTaggert’s thesis, and he studies it until dawn, when he has to pray Lauds. He doesn’t know enough about genetics to understand more than the very basics, but those — especially the rate of mutations Dr. MacTaggert projects — are utterly fascinating.

The birth of a new species. He dreams of wings and blue skin, and of the feeling of Erik’s mind when he manipulates delicate pieces of machinery.

 

#

Erik left without arranging another meeting for the next day, although he gave Charles his hotel address. Charles is glad for it. As much as he dreads the end of this week, he thinks he needs some time to come to terms with yesterday’s events.

There is Shenzberg, and Charles’ all-to-ready agreement to help Erik. Apart from the fact that he has never done anything quite like this and isn’t sure whether it will work, there is a whole host of moral lines that he is overstepping, and by now, Charles is a more than a little frightened of himself. Then there is the news of mutants, and the dream of a community of their own kind. While Erik seems to be mostly focused on the fear of prosecution and oppression, Charles is staggered by the possibilities for mankind. Dr. MacTaggert’s thesis implied an infinite range of possible powers. This might be the advent of the millennium promised in the Apocalypse. Charles cannot deny that he wants to be a part of it, but how does this fit in with the life he has built for himself, the vows he made?

And of course, there is Erik. Where the thought of a mutant community might be tempting, Erik, now that he has reappeared in Charles’ life, seems irresistible. The thought of losing him again — losing him to Schmidt and his own rage, at that — is unthinkable. And yet, while he still hopes that he can in some way reconcile the mutant cause (God, Erik has him thinking of it as a cause after one day) and his Church duties — after all, what is a priest if not a shepherd of his people? — he is not delusional enough to believe that he will ever be able to live up to his vows with Erik in his life as a constant temptation.

He will tackle each of these problems in order. He is giving a tour of St. Patrick’s for a group of middle schoolers from his parish today, and will stay for the midday Mass. It is very likely that Shenzberg will be in attendance, and it will give Charles a chance to peek inside his head, see what he’s in for.

The children are a noisy bunch, happy to be out of school for a morning and not particularly interested in what he has to say about Neo-Gothic architecture and the lives of the Archbishops entombed in the crypt. Charles senses a presence in the Sacristies — unusual for this time of day — and so he knocks before entering, lest they barge in on a priest in the middle of changing. There is a spike of alert, but no answer, and a second later, Charles knows why. Meeting Erik’s mind in unexpected places seems to be par for the course these days.

When they enter, Erik is hiding behind one of the curtains, and Charles is inordinately amused. The life of a Nazi-hunting vigilante has never seemed more prosaic.

 _Having fun there?_ he sends.

_Charles! Get those brats out of here, I’m working._

He drags the tour out just a little, telling the students in detail about the different chasubles on display, and adds it to his list of venial sins. Erik is cursing him in his head when they depart.

After leaving the children with their teacher, Charles heads back down. Erik, back in his cassock, comes out from behind his curtain and Charles has to snort at the disgruntled look on his face.

“Was that necessary?”

“Theological instruction is not to be taken lightly, my friend. You have dust in your hair.”

He does a mental check of their surroundings before moving closer to tousle Erik’s hair. Erik inhales sharply, and Charles is suddenly aware that this is the first time that he has initiated physical contact between them. Erik raises a hand, as if to reciprocate the gesture, and Charles makes to step away. His heart is hammering in his chest.

“Are you that anxious to get away from me?” Erik whispers. He leans into him, sneaking and arm around Charles’ waist and tugging him closer into his side. Charles should step back, he needs to get away, but his body follows Erik’s movement willingly.

“Do you know how often I have dreamed of this? Just holding you and finding out if we fit,” Erik mumbles into his hair, pressing a kiss to Charles’ hairline. “Do you have any idea how much I’ve missed you — how much I need you?”

Charles knows he is telling the truth, knows that there isn’t a single other person on earth to whom Erik would ever admit that kind of weakness, the level of trust it requires for him. Worse, Charles knows it is true for him too. It has been from the moment he first felt Erik’s mind. He never could have left Erik, but Erik left him, and Charles has been dealing with that fallout as well as he knows how until Erik crashed back into his life to make demands. 

He steps away, suddenly angry. He shifts his stance, until he is standing on solid ground, ready to stare Erik down.

“Don’t. I’ve taken a vow, and I’m asking you to respect that.”

He realizes his mistake as soon as the words come out of his mouth. Erik loves a fight, and Charles has given him an opening.

“Why? What are you hiding from, Charles?”

Erik mimcs his confrontational stance, blocking the exit to the crypt.

“What is it that you are scared of? You’re living a lie, and I don’t know how much of it you’ve convinced yourself you believe. You’re afraid of your own abilities; you pretend they are not an integral part of who you are, and yet you use them all the time. You ignore the world around you. Shenzberg has found four mutants since he came to New York, I found six on my travels, and yet you — a telepath living in one of the biggest cities in the world — tell me you haven’t met a single one. I could accept it if I thought that you were choosing this life over me because it is a passion, but all I can see is a cocoon that protects you from the outside.”

Above them, the church is starting to fill up. They are running out of time, it is a miracle that nobody has come in yet — and damn it all, he has been keeping them away unconsciously; hasn’t he? He needs to get a grip.

“You make it sound so wonderfully easy. I’m dangerous, Erik. I can enslave people with a thought, probably kill them if I feel like it. No man should have that power. Have you ever wondered what I did to  _you_? Do you honestly think you would have stayed at the convent if I hadn’t made you?” He tries to get past Erik, but Erik grips his upper arm before he can step through the door.

“I don’t regret anything you did to me,” he hisses, voice tight and controlled. “Everything you did has made me better. The man I am today would not exist without you. I want you with me — I need you — and I want you to stop denying that it’s mutual.”

All Charles wants is for Erik to stop pushing just once.

“I’m not denying anything.” He pulls free and turns; too angry to keep his voice under control. “I’m not acting on it; there’s a difference. I’m attracted to you. I’m a homosexual. I’m in love with you, damn you, is that what you want to hear?”

There is a moment of utter silence.

And then Erik is laughing hysterically, almost doubled over and leaning into Charles to keep standing.

“How many people did you just shut down, just so you could scream at me in the middle of St. Patrick’s?”

“Twenty-four? Stop laughing, you madman!” he says, trying to shove Erik away before he loses his grip on any of their potential witnesses and this turns into a scene. Erik doesn’t pay much attention to his attempts to get him to back off. He takes Charles face in both hands and kisses him soundly on the lips.

“You’re a marvel. A marvelous hypocrite.”

“Oh shut up.” And damn it, he’s starting to crack up, too. “You thought it was brilliant.”

“That’s what I’m saying, darling.”

 

#

That night Charles is grateful for Compline, the last prayer of the day. Surrounded by his fellows, under the roof of the church he has chosen as his new home (and what a welcoming home, in comparison to the empty, lavish halls of the mansion), he finds a peace that he has sorely missed these past few days. There is an undeniable beauty in the voices that are mingling to form a chant of question and answer, reciting the psalms and hymns he’s known by heart since childhood. The sound settles over him like a well-worn blanket, giving time for reflection and contemplation. He loves this part of the day — a companionship of souls, united in a single purpose, offering one last prayer to the glory of God at the end of the day. When the voices fall silent, he kneels and counts his blessings. His faith has been his one true companion through all struggles. Among his Christian brothers and sisters, he has found genuine charity, peace, acceptance and praise. The Church has given him a purpose and a home. He does not try to weigh these facts, to compare them against other paths he might have chosen or might still choose. Neither does he ponder on the imperfections of current Church practices and politics. That time will come. Tonight, he simply offers thanks for what he has been given, and vows to honor it. He sleeps well.

The next day is filled with tasks and appointments. He’s agreed to meet Erik for lunch, and finds that his fears of a repeat of their confrontation are unfounded. Erik is focused exclusively on Shenzberg.

They spend an hour arguing tactics and schedules. Charles would like to have a few more days to prepare — he does not feel ready — but Erik, who appears to have memorized Shenzberg’s calendar, is adamant that waiting longer will accomplish nothing. Since Charles cannot provide a single rational argument against Erik’s insistence that they make their move the next day, he eventually caves.

Erik asks him about his plans for the rest of the day, and Charles rattles off his list: confessions for the next hour, visits with sick parishioners, and work on an essay on comparisons of translations of the Apocalypse that he is working on for  _Catholic Biblical Quarterly._ Erik seems genuinely interested in Charles’ daily duties, and if his private thoughts on the matter are derogatory, he is shielding them very well. The last thirty minutes of their lunch actually feel like a harmless chat between two well-meaning friends who are getting in touch again, and Charles is reminded that Erik is a surprisingly good listener when he feels like it. It’s… nice.

That only means that later, he wants to kick himself for not realizing immediately what Erik would do with the information Charles has given him. He is the third to enter his confessional. Charles doesn’t know whether to laugh or sigh. He considers to ask Erik to leave, but then decides to play by the book.

“May the Lord be in thy heart and on thy lips, so that thou mayest rightly confess all thy sins.”

“Well, I came up with a lot of things you could do in these booths that I think are not strictly in accordance with Church doctrine,” Erik says dryly.

Charles glares at him through the lattice.

“But I came here to make a confession, so I’m going to do that instead, and I want you to hear me out. All right?”

“All right,” he replies, unsure what to expect.

“All right.” Erik takes a deep breath, with every sign that he has a speech prepared.

“You questioned whether I had a purpose beyond Schmidt. I’ve been trying to tell you that I do. A new species is being born. These are our people, and I will do anything in my power to find and protect them. Schmidt is only an obstacle in our path. I’m not denying that I have selfish reasons for going after him, but he needs to be stopped for the good of mutants as well as humans.

“I know you think that you failed when you were unable to stop me from leaving. I’m telling you that you didn’t. You have been the single most important influence in my life. I used to think that Schmidt made me the man I am today, but that’s not true. He only took from me what should have been mine. You’ve shaped me: you gave me hope, a home, a family. Schmidt made me believe that I was a monster. You taught me to love my powers, to hone them and control them. You taught me that I was not alone. Everything I know about mutants today is due to you proving to me that there are more of us, and that we need to stick together.”

Charles doesn’t know what to say. “Thank you. That means a lot to me.”

“I’m not done. That’s just the truth about the past. My confession is that I need you. I’ve always needed you; I always meant to come back for you. I can fight for mutantkind — defeat Schmidt and whomever comes after — but it will need more than that. They need a leader, a teacher, a preacher. You were that for me when you were twelve years old, I want you to be that for all of us.

“I’ve been deriding your choice of profession, but the truth is that you are a good priest, Charles. You are the good shepherd, you just haven’t found your flock. You are wasted here. There are people out there who need you. I need you. I cannot do this without you.

“So — I’m going to take anything you’re willing to offer. I don’t share your faith and I will never understand how someone who reads minds can be so blindly optimistic about human nature, but I won’t argue with you about the existence of God or whether Jesus can be found in a piece of bread. I won’t push you to give me more than you can. I’ll let you keep your vows, I’ll let you raise an army of good Catholic little mutants, I’ll let you recreate the Little Convent if that’s what you want, as long as you promise to come with me.”

“Could you do that?”

Erik is staring straight at him through the window. “If that’s what it takes.”

And there it is. Erik is offering him so much, and he can’t take it.

“I couldn’t. Not have you there every day. Not without being able to touch your mind. Not without being able to touch  _you_ , I’m afraid. I’m sorry.” 

“You’re always welcome in my head. I’m not recommending you explore every corner of my mind — it’s not a pretty place — but I don’t have secrets from you.”

_And what would I see?_

For the first time since their meeting, he immerses himself in Erik’s mind. At that time, their mutual confusion and joy had created a rush that had made it hard to separate clear thought. It’s different now. Erik has an exceptionally well-ordered and compartmentalized mind. His feelings for Charles are laid clear on the surface. There’s love, trust, admiration, and a not-so-small amount of frustration tinged in indulgence and amusement. Underneath the emotions Charles can see the memories that have shaped them. Mostly it’s their years at the convent, but there is a sizable number of other recollections from their years apart: times when Erik thought of him, dreamt of him, longed for him. And then, there is the issue he has been trying to avoid for years: desire. Erik hasn’t been lying about having fantasies about creative uses for confessionals. There’s also a visible fascination with the many buttons of his robe, and some ideas for the metal cross above the lattice window.

When Charles pulls out, both of them are breathing hard. He leans his forehead against the lattice that divides them.

“See? You can’t censor your thoughts. I think I’ve proved admirably that I’m not made of stone these last few days, Erik.”

Erik’s head is bowed down, defeated. “So what does that mean?”

Charles swallows.

“It means I will have to make a choice. It means I need time. Promise me you’ll give me that.”

“I will. Just tell me what you need.”

“I wish I knew.” He is utterly exhausted. “Right now, I need to take care of the queue outside, all right?”

Erik nods, briefly pressing his forehead against the window, where Charles is still resting his.

“All right. I’ll see you tomorrow, as agreed.”

#

That night, the insomnia that plagued Charles during the first years after his manifestation pays him a visit. He cannot stop thinking about Erik’s voice, the contours of his face through the lattice window, and most importantly, the visual fantasies in his head, somehow made all the more arousing by the fact that he was honestly offering to give up on them. Charles has never doubted that Erik loves him. After the last few days, he knows he is desired, as well. He tries to tell himself that it is a knowledge he had better been spared but his body disagrees vehemently.

Finally, he gives up and slides a hand down his abdomen to wrap a hand around his cock. He doesn’t do this often — he suspects the way his telepathy has made him learn and control his own mind has made celibacy a lot easier on him than on his fellows — but he cannot resist the temptation now, with Erik so close by, possibly doing the same. The thought of Erik touching himself while thinking about him is almost enough to tip Charles over the edge.

After, he lies between sticky sheets and meditates on the state of his mind and heart. He loves Erik the way husband and wife should love each other. This is not news; he has known it for over fourteen years and stopped denying it long ago. Not even his desire is new, although it is sharper now that he has met this new Erik, this man with the clean-shaven face and too many teeth in his smile, long, elegant fingers and long, lean torso and tapered waist, who confesses fantasies to him that keep him up at night… He is digressing. The important point is that his feelings for Erik are not a recent development, and while they are not strictly in compliance with Church doctrine, Charles has always been rather good at telling himself that, as long as he does not act or dwell on them, they do not impair his devotion to God and his duties. In a way, they have been a blessing, keeping him from other temptations. Charles has always been rather good at resisting the temptations of the flesh (current evidence notwithstanding), and no other mind could ever rival the attraction of Erik’s.

He could cast Erik aside now, and go on with his life.

He could cast this life aside now and go on with Erik.

The temptation is strong. He longs for Erik, yes. It is in part a selfish desire that might be possible to ignore by focusing on his vows, on his faith and his work. But the things he has learned from Erik — the emergence of others like them ( _mutants,_ he thinks, and the word tastes like a promise), the possibility of being part of a movement, of becoming a teacher of a new generation of God’s children, Schmidt and his ominous plans, and maybe the chance to help Erik find peace and prevent him from executing his bloody revenge — those make him question whether his place is really at St. James.

_If I follow my own beliefs, I have been given a gift from God. Shouldn’t I use it to the best of my ability, rather than hide it from everyone? What does it say about me that I have not given an honest confession since I was twelve years old? Can I truly serve God as a member of a Church that does not accept my very nature? I have always felt that my place was with Erik, and his with me. Is that a sin born from desire and selfishness, or simply my heart knowing the truth? What could we accomplish together, and what harm might Erik do alone?_

It is futile to hope for sleep tonight. Charles takes up the rosary from his bedside table and begins to pray.

#

Prayer lasts him until one in the morning, and his father’s whisky until two. Half past two finds him knocking at the door of Erik’s hotel room. Erik’s reaction is admirably fast; at the third knock, he has been pulled inside, a knife pressed to his throat. It’s only an instant until Erik recognizes him; the knife is removed, the hand around his neck gentles, and the light switches on seemingly on its own. Judging from his tousled hair and the state of the bed, Erik had been sleeping, but he is wide awake and alert. Charles’ heart is racing. This is it.

_I haven’t made a decision. I don’t want to talk. I think I’d like you to kiss me, and then I’ll stay the night, and tomorrow morning, I‘ll leave. You won’t try to convince me to stay._

Erik inhales sharply, and his right arm grips Charles’ hip. There’s a sharp spike of arousal, before Erik is forcibly quenching it, trying to figure out how drunk Charles is and having ridiculous notions about taking advantage. After being pursued aggressively for almost a week, Charles just doesn’t have time for that kind of hypocrisy.

“I’m not drunk enough for you to take that decision from me, I chose to come here on my own terms, and yes, I’ll regret this in the morning, but as far as sin goes, I think I took care of that part myself earlier this evening when I masturbated while picturing you on your knees in a confession booth so I might as well count this day as a loss and keep collecting experiences.”

It’s enough to shut Erik up. It’s also, apparently; enough to get him hard, judging from the evidence pressed against Charles’ right hip.

Erik nods, the motion bringing his lips in reach of Charles’, so he captures them. His experience boils down to  a messy kiss at fifteen, what he’s seen in other people’ heads (both voluntarily and by accident), and the liberties Erik has been taking for the last days, but Erik doesn’t seem to mind. His mouth is warm and welcoming, and his mind is right there and…

_Let me in, please?_

Erik’s  _Yes!_ is an unmistakeable invitation and —  _God, Erik_.

It’s frenzied, and messy, and at one point Charles thinks he should really slow down if he wants to remember any of this in the future. But then, he’s not actually sure he does — and the litany of  _finallyfinallyfinally_  running through Erik’s head is coaxing him to get more skin contact, now.

They make it out of their clothes and onto the narrow bed in admirable time. The sheets are still warm and smell of Erik, and Charles  _never wants to leave_  and apparently, his telepathy is playing tricks on him because Erik is pressing kisses into his chest and telling him  _Then don’t_.

Erik’s mouth is trailing lower and Charles knows exactly where this is going, but it’s not enough to prepare him for the feeling of Erik’s lips around him: wet and hot and sucking. He can see himself through Erik’s eyes - clutching the sheets and moaning — and he should probably be embarrassed, but he’s overwhelmed by the physical stimulation and the fierce pride and love and desire welling up from Erik’s mind.

He comes in Erik’s mouth and completely forgets to warn him. Erik doesn’t seem to mind. He moves up and kisses him deeply, until Charles pulls away and makes a face at the taste of himself.

“You’re filthy.”

Erik smirks. “Forgive me, Father.”

And tomorrow he’ll wonder that this didn’t destroy the mood, but right now, he’s riding on endorphins and all he can do is turn into Erik’s shoulder and laugh helplessly.

When he’s somewhat recovered, he starts his own exploration of Erik’s body. It’s odd — he recognizes the scars on Erik’s skin from countless summer days at the stream, but the body under his hands and lips is foreign and new. Erik has moved up to lean against the headboard and watches his progress. It should be intimidating, but instead, Charles feels strangely emboldened. He relishes each response, each sign of pleasure and encouragement he can coax from Erik’s body, catalogues the way Erik’s nipple tightens when he sucks it into his mouth and the sound Erik makes when he scratches the trail of hair leading from navel to groin. He doesn’t think he’s ready to repay Erik in kind, but he mouths at his balls and licks a wet stripe up his shaft before taking him in hand.

Erik’s cock is bigger than his, the head is cut and the angle is off, but Charles tries to simulate the motions that he knows feel good on himself, and takes generous clues from Erik’s head to see what works. Erik’s mind sparks when he twists his hand at the top, so he does it again until Erik’s eyes finally fall shut and he accuses him of cheating. Charles bites his nipple.

“Stop complaining or  _I’ll_  stop.”

Erik bucks up into his hand to urge him on.

“Hmm, you know I love it when you cheat.”

He thinks that Erik is talking too much, so he speeds up until Erik groans and stripes his hand and the sheets with come.

After Erik has gone and fetched a towel to clean them both up, they lie awake for a long time, foreheads pressed together, trading kisses and touches. Charles has withdrawn almost completely from Erik’s mind. Erik is trying hard to honor his promise not to attempt to convince Charles to stay, but he can’t very well stop himself from thinking it.

“I love you,” Erik murmurs against his lips. Charles leans up to kiss his cheek and then traces the spot with his hand.

“I know,” he says. “I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

“Then I’m glad you do.”

“You should sleep, love.”

“So should you. Long day tomorrow.”

Charles nods, and continues to smooth Erik’s hair. They don’t talk, and they don’t sleep.

#

Charles is glad about exactly two things the next day. The first one is that he hasn’t slept, because that keeps him from thinking overmuch about the implications of violating Shenzberg’s mind today, and the second is that they are moving on Shenzberg today, because that keeps him from thinking about last night.

Charles had told Erik that he needed a few days to prepare for this. It wasn’t a lie, inasmuch as he needed the time to come to terms with what he’s about to do, but as far as the execution goes, it’s depressingly simple. When they enter, the receptionist gives them a polite nod but doesn’t ask any questions. Charles is prepared to wipe their faces from her mind, but a peek is enough to assure him that she hardly registered and certainly won’t remember them. The same is true for the few people passing them in the hallway. The secretary is alone in his office, nobody sees them enter and Charles can get a grip on Shenzberg’s mind long before the man can raise an alarm or even start to ask questions. Shenzberg’s mind is an ugly place, and while Charles has the uncomfortable suspicion that Erik would like to drag this out — conduct an interrogation in a style that he feels approaches if not meets what Shenzberg deserves — he’ll do this on his terms.

“You will tell us everything you know about Klaus Schmidt. Afterwards, you’ll write that information down and hand it over, along with any kind of evidence related to him. Then we’ll leave, and you will forget all about us. You will never contact Schmidt again.”

Shenzberg’s mind might be ugly, but it is also thankfully weak. There is no mental resistance; the confession is concise and complete and Shenzberg types it without a single mistake. Erik might not be satisfied with the manner of the interrogation, but he cannot argue with the results. Shenzberg knows Schmidt’s new alias (Sebastian Shaw), his current whereabouts (a Vegas nightclub called, of all possible names, the Hellfire Club), and when Shaw will be there next (next Friday; Shenzberg is supposed to meet him in person).

There is little physical evidence linking Shenzberg to Schmidt, except for a meticulous list of financial transactions between one Emma Frost, the ostensible owner of the Hellfire Club, and Shenzberg. It is of little value to Erik, but Charles rather suspects that while the Church might cover one of their own who is suspected of crimes against Jews and other minorities under the Nazi regime, it would be less willing to do the same for a priest who is currently accepting bribes from a nightclub owner, so those might still come in handy.

All told, they leave the office barely thirty minutes after they’ve entered it.

 

 

 

 

#

They head back to Erik’s place, and Charles knows this was a mistake the moment his eyes fall on the unmade bed. Erik gives him one look, sits him down in the chair facing away from the bed and pours him a brandy from the mini bar. Charles gulps it down.

“Better?”

His first attempt to reply ends in a cough. Erik pats his back, and he suddenly can’t stand to be touched. He moves to the window.

“I’m frightened of myself. In the last twenty-four hours I’ve violated just about every moral code I have set for myself.” He leans down hard on the windowsill. It is so hard confess this. He can admit his own flaws before God, but baring everything before another human is not something he does. He chokes out the important part.

“I don’t feel bad about it.”

He hears Erik move closer.

“Don’t touch me! I can’t talk to you about this. I’m not sure if I’ve simply lost my moral compass, or if I’ve been constructing an elaborate lie for myself for the last decade or longer. I’m not sure which is worse.

“I just… I think I need to be alone.”

He can’t even look at Erik as he flees.

 

 

#

At four, he is thoroughly drunk. It’s probably the reason he searches through the boxes of old clothes under his bed until he finds a shirt with a normal collar, and then heads out to take the train all the way out to Long Island.

It’s early evening when he’s found the local church and is knocking on the priest’s door. The poor man is probably just having dinner. The housekeeper seems reluctant to let him in, but the priest, a man about twice his age with thinning hair and kind eyes, readily agrees when he begs for him to hear his confession. For an instant, Charles can see himself through the other man’s eyes to clinically diagnose the signs of sleep deprivation, alcohol and exhaustion. He looks disgusting, and he’s pretty sure he reeks. The priest’s view of him is tinged in compassion and pity; he simply sees a man who is close to mental breakdown and needs help.

“Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It has been sixteen years since my last full confession.”

He has been to confession only five days ago, but in his current state, he feels that the backdate is only honest. Kneeling in the confession booth, he confesses to sins of lying, sodomy, receiving the sacrament of the Holy Eucharist in a state of mortal sin, lying in confession, stealing, masturbation, leading others into sin, breaking his vow of chastity, desecrating Church property, and lustful thoughts. He finds himself rambling as he tries to explain that he can hear thoughts, that he has invaded and violated others’ privacy, that he has hidden and at times relished in his talent. His voice breaks at several points. The priest hears him out until he closes to ask pardon.

Charles has been wondering for years now what would happen if he confessed to being a telepathic homosexual, and the answer is bright at the forefront of the priest’s mind: he thinks Charles is schizophrenic. It’s pity wrapped in deep disbelief. The priest does not even take his confession about his relationship with Erik seriously; discounts it as the sinful fantasies of a deeply troubled mind. Charles can see him fumbling for words of admonition at the end of his convoluted monologue.

“My son, it is only right that you seek God’s forgiveness for the sins you have confessed, but there are times when it is sinful not to look for help in earthly places as well, lest we do lasting harm to ourselves. Try to seek counsel from your fellow Christians or a doctor.”

Charles wants to laugh, because while it is kindly meant, it is the least useful advice he has ever received. He does not need a doctor; he came because he thought he needed the forgiveness of God and his Church, but what is his confession worth if it is not believed?

The priest assigns him a rosary for his penance, as well as to reflect on the goodness of God and the sacredness of human life, and Charles acquiesces with the Act of Contrition. He lets the Latin of the priest’s absolution wash over him as he vows to do penance and amend his life. Both of their words are utterly meaningless to him. He is not quite sure what he was looking for when he came here, but he has not found it.

There is a note stuffed under his door when he returns home.

 

_Charles,_

_I know this is not a good time, but I have to leave tomorrow if I want to pe prepared for S. next Friday. Everything I said remains true. I want you by my side — in this and after. I will be waiting for you until 8am. If you are not there, I promise I will be back once I have dealt with S._

_Yours,_

_E._

He crunches it in his fist, and then he collapses on the bed and finally passes out. __

#

 

\- 8:30 -

Erik opens the door on the first ring, and Charles is overwhelmed by the thought F _inally!_

“You’re not wearing your collar.” Erik’s voice is rough.

Charles tugs at his tie. “I didn’t think it was quite fitting if I’m going into Hellfire.”

Erik doesn’t even bother to drag him inside before he kisses him. 

**Author's Note:**

> The basic idea for this plot came to me while I was browsing through the RBB art posts, and it honestly took me a month to realize that I had stolen the first half from _Au revoir les enfants_ , a film that I'd seen over ten years ago in high school and that has apparently been festering in my subconscious. I recommend watching that if you're looking for more angst involving little boys in Catholic French boarding schools.
> 
> I did _a lot_ of research for this work, from WWII front lines to pre-Vatican II Catholicism. I'm sure I still got lots of things wrong (starting with the fact that I highly doubt the sacristy of St. Patrick's has ornamental windows, as it is underground), given that I'm neither a historian nor actually Catholic. If you happen to notice something, please let me know! I'll be incredibly grateful, because I'm a nerd. I also adore all other forms of feedback!


End file.
